She spent it on Ann Patchett and Judith Moore

Fatigued with not writing my novel, I am lately enjoying the financial benefits of not writing short stories, instead. Yes, I say, but a short story is not a novel, now is it? Well, I would have to counter, not writing this novel has not netted me any tiny share-of-the-profits checks, now has it? Huh? Well? Whereas not writing short stories is still bringing in the bucks. Hah! Gotcha there.

It is a wee sacred bit of gold that came in the mail last week, my share of the author goodies from the reprint of "Bumpship" and my first financial feedback from the reading public, since it is a reflection of sales. It lands like a boulder in the unraked sand of my nonwriting. To further confuse myself, I will fritter away the gold on books unrelated to nursing education. We fritter, here in the South, and lest you confuse this with waste, allow me to educate (and in true Southern fashion politely insult) you. Whole life insurance is waste. A raw ceramic head of Medusa, one shrimp burrito, and a bumper sticker that says, "Focus on your own damn family" (which you will never put on your car but could not resist) is frittering, especially if you bought it with funds earmarked for a whole life insurance payment. Frittering requires a moment of rebellion, freedom, sailing off into the future with a huge batique panel that must be carried all the way home because no cab will stop for you and the guards stand firm at the Metro. Frittered money is not wasted; it is disposed of, pleasantly, in small but steady scatterings. We Southerners fritter dollars "away" as if they were slightly dangerous, likely to gather and attack. Consider the word "amass" and tell me that I am wrong about this.

If you are an artful spender, you will rarely be faced with a dangerous mass of bucks, but it is possible to fritter away even large amounts of money. It takes style and dedication. If you inherit a million dollars, invest it in energy stocks and lose it all, you have wasted it, and tortured yourself with failure. If you inherit a million dollars, do whatever you feel like doing, go wherever you feel like going, and buy whatever you feel like buying for two or three years until you are so broke that you have to get a job waiting tables at Denny's just to pay rent--and you are not a gambler or high--you have probably frittered it away. Do you have fond memories of all the things you did with it, and do not hate yourself for it being gone now? Congratulations. You have style.

Now you will understand. To fritter away her small nugget on Truth and Beauty and Fat Girl in the face of tuition bills and unresolved plumbing issues, Danae must step forward into bliss, rake in hand, to remind herself that the ground level of being is not littered with mutual funds. Both books are autobiographical, which I did not notice until after I had chosen them. I think I get it, though. Nonfiction can be a very hard first draft. I want a little mental company while I am not writing the novel, a few gods to emulate, a little hope that all this grinding nonwriting autobiography leads to a fritterable future. I am a master fritterer. I can do this.

Okay then.

She spent it on cheap contraception

Obviously. And too late.

Nope. Still not writing a novel. Just checking in to see if I am an instant blog-related cure yet. Doing lots of things I hate doing, instead, today; tasks involving black plastic bags and chemicals and tough decisions about when a favorite old dress becomes a symptom. This has made for a productive day, in a traditional American "busy hands are happy hands" pioneer in the sod hut, mind-numbing, big trash day sort of way. One of the best things about writing this novel, I'm finding upon reflection, is that it has freed me up to do those things--some huge and decades overdue--I used to feel guilty about not doing while gleefully revising a sticky paragraph for the fortieth time.

You don't revise your paragraphs forty times? It is rock tumbling. Loop back, up and over and back again, dozens of times, then rest, then more dozens of times, until the shape of the story reveals itself. It is the Fool's method, a journey begun with a first misstep and a fall from a great height. I miss it so much.

So, it's good to take down the Christmas tree and put up the stacks of disaster supplies, and I feel very proud of myself, but it's still not writing. On the other hand, I know exactly where to find all the sterno, the matches, the batteries, the candles, the dog crates, the window tape, the cans of food no one would eat except in disastrous circumstances and the metal gizmo you heat it up with. With which you heat it. Up. Which, with the heat...the sterno stove. Hurricane Season is here. After last year, we capitalize it.

She spent it on ink

"The difference between a novelist and the rest of us is that a novelist finishes the book." If I could remember who said this to me, I would sell his car on eBay.

I have heard stories about novelists, but there are more stories about the rest of us. Come now, don't flinch. You know them, too. First glorious chapters, retrench character sketches, desperate plot diagrams, vague computer issues, unexplained housefires, wilderness treks in a '78 Datsun pickup with a plywood camper. Offline, off the hook, off the planet. What ever happened to Susan? I thought she was writing a science fiction novel. And wasn't there some nonfiction project, too?

Shame and ruin, ruin and shame. Chapters in a drawer, on a disk, in the glove compartment on fast food napkins. You have them, too. Admit it. Say it loud and proud: "I am a novelist, sort of." Claim your power! Stop the insanity! Make a list of all the things you need to do before you can write again, including major house remodeling and a trip to India! Don't let the negativity of that guy with no car now creep into your pristine writer's consciousness! You know that someday you will show up when those chapters least expect it and take them out for dinner and a great bottle of wine!

I have seen novel panic firsthand. I will say only that it is good to know I am not alone. I have chapters. Yes. I have titles and first lines and short stories standing in line in my head. Jostling. Throwing popcorn. Laughing out loud when I try to speak.

Nursing school. There. I said it. How desperate does a writer have to be to go to nursing school to avoid writing? I would tell you, but that would break my rule of not talking about nursing school here (just here, please, just this one little crumb of my life). If you know a nurse, ask her or him about nursing school. Say, "So, did you write a lot of fiction while you were in nursing school? No? Why are you laughing?"

News of the day from rainy, leaky, bug-ridden, brutally hot Florida: Oh goodie. Here's a brand new hurricane.

Good day to start writing again.